


Consolation

by Nabielka



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-23 16:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12511380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nabielka/pseuds/Nabielka
Summary: ‘He had never talked of it with her — he had never been able to bear talking of it with anyone — but sometimes he had come from his father’s sickbed to see her, to take solace, wordlessly, in her body.’





	Consolation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lileura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lileura/gifts).



The King was dying.

The soldiers in the barracks knew it; the cooks knew it; the merchants on contract with the court knew it. The news was spreading out to the kyroi of diverse provinces; perhaps even the slaves whispered of it amongst themselves. 

One person who made no mention of the circumstance was Damianos, who came from his father’s chambers to her own, and took Jokaste in his arms and pressed her to the bed without a word. He shed his chiton easily, and parted hers as she lay beneath him, and then his hands would travel to her breasts and between her legs. 

It was not the first time, but still it unnerved her. She was used to talking. Indeed, when he had first began to court her, he had talked a lot: of his childhood, his fighting, his intentions as a ruler, and of his brother. More than that, he had asked for news of her, and of what she liked. It was heady to have all that attention, from one who commanded a room by virtue of entering it, and having been taught to make the world shape itself according to his will since childhood, was well able to put his schooling into effect. He did not ask of her accomplishments or how she envisaged filling her future days; perhaps, being accustomed to slaves and the occasional gladiators and villagers whom he took for a night or two, he imagined that he knew the answer already. In that, he was hardly alone. 

She was aware that it could not always be like that; certainly at times his own troubles must make him morose or withdrawn, and so she had arched beneath him in encouragement and not complained. Besides, Jokaste had not seen this side of him before, and had not quite known how to act. A Prince’s attention might be fleeting, and she had held it already longer than most, and was not sure that his affection could withstand anything but acquiescence. 

But those nights, his body on hers, his attention perfunctory, left her unsatisfied. He was never rough – no doubt he had slaves for that – but it only served to make her feel like she too was there only for his pleasure. 

She had been bold, once, when first he had turned to courting her, and held fast to her own opinions. She was not a woman given to thinking herself as timorous, but she knew well enough how much it paid to be cautious, when faced with a lover whose word was near law. 

His mouth was bent at her neck, his lips on her skin. The ceiling above them had been painted as clear white as the palace walls. Her eyes on it, she made herself say, “How fares your father?”

Damen pulled back. His face was blank, and for a long moment he blinked at her uncertainly. 

It took a moment before he said, “Not well,” as though the words were being torn from his throat, and applied himself again to sucking kisses along the column of her neck. 

She let his mouth drift down to her collarbone. She let him spread her legs and push himself in, and moved with him as he took his pleasure. 

When it was over – when he was asleep – she threw an arm over her eyes and closed them, and knew not what she wished for. To have again those first few nights when she had first gone to his bed, perhaps. They had been merry then, and had talked long in the aftermath of it. He had taught her a wrestling move, a simple one, and seemed delighted when she flipped him, though she was not so foolish as to think it a fair match. 

His father was dying. She told herself it was only natural that he should not have time for her, that even as he was present his thoughts must be elsewhere. Still, to be fucked like this galled her. Ruefully, she acknowledged that deep down she was still the same girl who had railed so helplessly against the narrowing of her childhood world. Her father would have been appalled, except that she was still in the Prince’s bed. 

She lay like this a while, listening to his breathing. It was steady; he was in prime health. Perversely, this began to annoy her. She herself could not sleep, while he had rest, and everything else besides. It was unjust: he worried for his father, that she knew. But she was tired too, a weariness that went beyond physical sleeplessness. With a sigh, she pushed back the covers and swung out of bed.

The nights were beginning to cool. She felt the chill on her bare body, felt the goosemarks rise, but in the poor light she could not see where her chiton had gone. Damianos had no shame and could walk freely around his own chamber, and in high summer she too wore little, but even here Jokaste could not bring herself to bare herself so, as freely available as a slave. 

She found some light garment she had slept in a few times, and putting it on, went as quietly as she could through to her solar. 

When she had first come to court to be presented to the king, the rooms she had been assigned had been smaller. Then Damianos had looked at her, and had liked her face or her figure or her hair, or all three, and Jokaste had found soon enough that she was to have the use of these rooms instead. After all, everything at court was set up for the comfort of the king and his sons, and it was unthinkable that one of them should find himself spending the night in small chambers. 

She went through and stopped short, for the solar was not quite as she had left it. She had been alone when Damen had come, and half-asleep already besides, but here now on her reclining couch lay one of her ladies, Kyrina, her black hair coming loose from its braids. She was asleep. 

Looking at her, Jokaste was hit by a wave of tenderness. Kyrina, who had known her since they had been girls together in the Aegina, must have seen something in her manner earlier that evening. Kyrina had walked through the palace at night because she thought Jokaste in need of comfort. 

Then it came to her that it was not like that at all, and the realisation brought with it a wave of shame. For Kyrina had problems of her own: her mother was having an inheritance dispute with Kyrina’s uncle, and she had come to Jokaste to beg her help and the intervention of Damianos. 

She imagined it, no doubt, to be an easy thing. Simple, to turn to one’s lover and explain that someone one cared for had troubles, and request his aid. Perhaps she had even had that confidence with the father of her child, who lived with her mother in the Aegina, or perhaps Kyrina had been too partial, in childhood, to tales of wives who swayed their husbands to justice or mercy. Besides, she felt intimidated by him, and was sure her mistress did not. 

It was not so easy. But Jokaste, looking down now at Kyrina, her brow smoothed by sleep, a woman who looked to have no care, was acutely aware that she had given her word to make the attempt. _I will try_ , she had said, for she cared for Kyrina and Kyrina had been frantic, but even now she remained unsettled by Kyrina’s response. It had been as though she expected the matter to be settled already; that, having secured Jokaste’s pledge of assistance, she considered her mother’s rights to have been secured likewise. 

Standing there on the threshold between one of her rooms and the other, between her lover and Prince behind her and her attendant in front, Jokaste hesitated. There was no place else for her to go. When she awoke, Kyrina would be disappointed, and would not understand where the issue lay; Damen’s expectations of her for this night were at least satisfied. She was weary, and if she was to beg Kyrina’s case, it would do her better to be well-rested; she had a tendency to snap when tired, and did not feel comfortable doing so at him. 

In the morning, he might summon his slaves to bring light food to her chambers, and talk with her over it. In the morning, she might judge his mood good enough to bring the Aeginan trouble to him, over whom the issue of his own impending inheritance loomed. He was not in principle an unjust man, though his ideas of right were conventional and followed his father’s in all things, and at times she found them foreign to her own. But he liked her pleased. Interceded with in an agreeable mood, Kyrina’s troubles might be dispensed with presently.

But there was nothing to be done for it at present but to turn back and lie down beside him, and toss and turn until the sky outside began to lighten with the coming dawn.


End file.
